Not letting you avoid this
by Johix
Summary: Can one's interest be truly just scientific when it comes to kissing? (Well, I don't know... yet)
1. Chapter 1

"Sherlock," the doctor sight, and a little of panic that was rising inside him for a while already came out of his mouth together with the name of his flatmate – a detective who was now putting him in a difficult, hopeless situation – so it sounded a bit shakily at the end, "don't – don't do this."

The flatmate – as always – listened, but did not care (it's simple: when Sherlock Holmes wanted something or was about to do something, he _would_ get it, and he _would_ do it, and he would _not_ give a damn about your objections). "It won't kill you, John," he said in a smooth tone of voice, not stepping a single inch away from his poor friend, the face of his completely calm and unreadable.

Oh _god_ how this irritated John! He was more than well aware that by looking at his face Sherlock could somehow recognize even the tiniest hints of emotions he'd happened to feel. He knew he was almost able to read his mind while he himself couldn't see a bloody thing; most of the time the detective's face was like a mask, cold mask of indifference that he never did remove – only lift it up a little (for certain people of course).

Yet (and especially from such closeness) John sometimes noticed the little sparks of enthusiasm in Sherlock's eyes; all the feelings he had suppressed or managed not to be shown with his facial expression or behaviour he unwillingly (and probably also unknowingly) had plainly visible in them (like a little child who cannot speak yet, but you just _know_ it wants the red lollipop you've got in your hand; you can tell only from its look, only from its eyes).

"Heh, I know that you idiot." _Although I doubt it'll make me any stronger._

"So? I can't see a problem in it. As for the practical side I'm quite sure you're doing better than me. Though... you're not exactly a plethora of knowledge I need to obtain. I'm going to make it quick, I give you my word."

"You may give me your house in Sussex. I still say _don't_ do it – bad idea." Slowly John pronounced every syllable so Sherlock could not, by any chance, misheard his words as well as the seriousness of them.

"Baad?" the detective wondered, drawing out the 'a' as he tilted his head slightly forward.

"Yeah. Probably the worst idea that y– _Jesus fuck! Stop!_" the doctor sort of squeaked and pressed his head to the wall.

There was a quick twitch of Sherlock's eyebrows – a little frown at his friend's sudden nervousness. "Huh?"

"Stop _right_ where you are, Sherlock. You bring those cheekbones closer to my face and I'll bloody kick you you-know-where," he gave a warning with his voice sounding firm again. "And I think there's no need of telling you that now I have the perfect angle to make it terribly painful."

The detective's hips instinctively drew back. Everything else of him, however, remained in the same spot where it was: very hardly a half-step from John Watson.

"And now, if you'll excuse me..." John said with that I-am-already-tired-of-your-shit look only he could make, and waited for Sherlock to step away and let him go (sure he had the ability to shove him aside, but God knows Sherlock's reaction could be any, and dealing with him was the very last thing he would like to do in the morning).

When the detective forthwith realized what was going on in his flatmate's uncomplicated mind, he simply had to stop him from it; he wanted to get the thing over with and there was no time for him to chase the doctor around the flat like a foolish monkey – again.

_Why it has to be so complicated?_ he asked himself, and put his hand on the wall next to John's head, showing him the disapproval of excusing him.

Why there's always something? Why he just can't understand and let him do it? God dammit why people do not cooperate with him?! It would make everything so much easier for everyone. Is it truly that hard? Is it?

He sight and – as he was looming over him – looked down at his flatmate: "I'm not letting you avoid this."

"_What?_"

"Oh stop. No need to raise your blood pressure."

"_You_" the doctor said angrily, his lips creating a little 'o' at the end of the word, "not letting me _avoid this_? _What the hell Sherlock?_ You should be thanking me that I didn't punch you when you'd put forth that _magnificent _idea. 'I _need_ to do it, John. I wouldn't if I didn't have to. There's no other option. I want to find something out, John. I–'"

"My voice definitely did not sound so fatuous."

_"Eh?"_

"My voice. I did not speak to you with such a–"

"_That's not_ –" John raised his voice and his left hand convulsively clenched into a fist. But actually he didn't want to shout at Sherlock, so he calmed himself down and finished with an exhalation, "– the point. I'm pretty sure you can find out whatever-it-is with someone else's assistance."

"...Maybe," the detective gave a nod. "Yes. Maybe – _maybe_ I can do that... But with whom?"

"Well, I don't know!" was the doctor's annoyed reply.

Then there was silence for a while as John had actually started to think about it (just for fun), and Sherlock waited for what his friend would come out with as he suddenly seemed so thoughtful.

"Perhaps... Molly...?"

"Ugh."

"What? Molly likes you."

"Precisely."

"And that... that is a bad thing?"

"Of course. She's attracted to me. That is always a problem: the interest of one person appears to be purely scientific while the interest of another person is caused merely by the fact that he or she is being attracted to the other one. It may then be somewhat... difficult for the–"

"Wait. Are you just telling me that you don't want to drag Molly into it, because you don't want to hurt her?"

"Um..."

"You do," the doctor smirked.

The detective pierced him with stern eyes.

But John only watched him with a warm smile upon his face, and then said: "That is nice of you."

And Sherlock's eyes softened for a moment. Then – after those fleeting seconds – he put the mask back down, back to its place, and asked coldly: "Shall we do it then?"

"No!"

"But–"

"No!"

A sound of frustration thrust its way out the detective's throat.

"Sh-Sherlock," John forced himself into a little, nervous smile, "that will not happen. It... It's a thing you simply _don't_ do with someone you're–" he stopped, revising his upcoming words. "...I'll try to put it in a way you'd understand," the doctor said at last, and continued with the listen-to-me-child tone of voice: "_you_ are _not_ supposed to do _this_ kind of things with a person to whom you haven't formed a _romantic_ attachment - or something like that. Well... okay, maybe some people do it, but–"

"John, I am not asking you to marry me. I'm only asking you to kiss me."

The doctor's expression grew almost anguished. "My explanation is totally pointless, isn't it?"

"Well, in this situation, I'd say it _is_ quit p–"

"I haven't even had my breakfast yet, Sherlock," he cut the detective's words with a complaint as he had come to the conclusion that if he won't do so, Sherlock simply won't shut up and let him go any soon. "Am I allowed to have a cup of coffee?"

Sherlock realized that his flatmate was absolutely not about to provide him with that puny favour he asked him for (at least not right now), and so he put the hand back to his side and with a blank expression stepped away at once.

"Thanks."

. . .

_Three times_, the detective said to himself and kept his eyes fixed on the doctore who – for the third time so far – had licked his lips while eating the poor, almost pitiable breakfast he'd managed to prepare.

It was something he did; it belonged to him and Sherlock liked it – the way John's tongue flickered over his bottom lip. It was... well... kind of lovely. No – wait – not lovely. Nor dainty or charming. It was... specific; one of the things that made John Watson John Watson, a part of his personality – a part of him.

And somehow this was the most favourite part of Sherlock's. He evidently was conscious of the others (John's partiality for sweatshirts, the fact he didn't take sugar in his coffee, his mannerism, that he liked to walk barefoot around their flat, that he controlsed his gun every night, the two-finger tipping, the green-apple shampoo, the unlimited facial expression, the short dressing gown, facepalms...) and they were _all_ important. Well, not as much as that the molecular formula of Trinitrotoluene is C7H5N3O6 and that the string A is tuned to 440 Hz, but they certainly occupied some of the detective's Mind palace.

The doctor finished the toast and took a draught of his coffee, then licked his lips again.

(_Four times._)

This time he did it only to remove the coffee from them; those previous three times it was rather without knowing since he was lost in thought (it is a fact that most of people do something they're not fully aware of while they are thinking).

"I bet you've got something better to do than watch me."

The detective cocked his head: "What?"

"I say shouldn't you work on that... music-box case?"

"_Music-box _case?"

"Fine," John accepted, "Only _the_ case then."

"Well, I _am_ working on it."

"Ah."

Sherlock kept silence for a while, sitting in his armchair in his habitual position, thinking, then getting up at once and putting on his coat. "Are you going with me?" he turned at his flatmate.

"I suppose so,"

At that a quick, contented smile appeared on the detective's mouth.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see," he replied, and went to his room (for his scarf probably).

"Why am I even asking, right?" John sighed quietly so Sherlock couldn't possibly hear him, and before he would once again get into a cab with him and then be amazed by his extraordinary powers, he went to the kitchen to wash the mug from which he was drinking coffee moments ago.

And as soon as he turned off the water, there stood the detective next to him: blue scarf around his neck, hiding the freckles John knew were there, black coat setting up the fair skin, white shirt hugging his chest (smothering it), and a twinkle in the eyes, revealing his excitement.

"Take a spoon with you."

. . .

"That went good," said the detective as they were walking down a street, leaving the police cars behind.

The doctor could not help but stop and a bit shocked stare at his friend.

"What?" Sherlock wondered, his brows lowered in incomprehension.

"It – went – good?" John repeated. "You've just saved the lives of five people, because you've _actually _managed to figure out something everyone would say is so impossible that it'd be completely absurd to even think about it; the connection between that parrot and the slowed down cylinder. God, I would never believe," he laughed softly, "that a spoon can be used in such a way." He shook his head and smiled: "You're amazing. I know I maybe say it too much often –" he paused "– I do. But... a bit of regular praise didn't kill anyone yet I guess."

"So did not a kiss," remarked the detective and promptly approached his friend.

John stood still, knowing – _hoping _– Sherlock would not dare to do something that... that could ruin their friendship. He cleared his throat and looked up at that idiotic genius: "You can't be serious."

"Oh, I am."

"No," he demurred resolutely, "You are not," and with that he pushed Sherlock away – not rudely though, but with enough strength to let him know which direction he should move his legs. He waved a cab and tried not to think about... _anything_ during the right home.

Why for goodness sake would Sherlock want to kiss him? What could he possibly learn from it? Sometimes he really acts like a bloody idiot. Doesn't he get that this simply _won't_ do? And what about himself? What if _he– _Oh, _stop_ it! John snapped internally.

. . .

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**Ahoj Chramostová**


	2. Chapter 2

"Oh, boys, good you are back," said Mrs Hudson (she was standing in the hallway, obviously going to her flat), Sherlock's and John's landlady – _not_ their housekeeper – as they went throught the front door of 221B Baker Street. "There's a young man waiting for you, Sherlock. He's waiting for two hours already. I'm just about to make him some tea; I couldn't find any in that mess you call a kitchen..."

As soon as the detective had been told that in his flat there is another potential client who will pleas his mind with a nice problem he can solve, he did not wait for anything and rushed immediately upstairs.

When the flat door clicked shut after him, Mrs Hudson turned to John, finishing her thought: "It's more of a lab, isn't it?"

He nodded in agreement, and halfway up the stairs admitted that sometimes he also couldn't find tea in their kitchen – or anything he needed actually.

. . .

John took of his jacket and went to the living room.

There he was greeted with a bewildering sign: his friend, Sherlock Holmes – _the_ Sherlock Holmes – was being _hugged_ by someone. And moreover: he was _not_ resisting or looking any uncomfortable.

_What the fuck? _John thought, and with a puzzled face stared at that miracle.

The both men noticed the doctor's presence, and stepped aside from each other.

"You're Sherlock's flatmate," the unknown smiled. He was thin, brown-haired, with glasses sitting on his nose. "Nice to meet you, I'm Alastair."

John accepted an outstretched hand and shook it. But even before he could introduce himself the man had already turned away from him, asking the detective: "Is he also your boyfriend?"

At that John only rolled his eyes, and remained silence (after all, that question wasn't addressed to him).

Sherlock – as always when it comes to the relationship between him and his blogger – didn't answer to it, and made a reply by his own question: "What are you doing here?"

"First you'll introduce us properly," the young man said in an uncompromising tone of voice.

"As you wish," the detective agreed unbiassedly. "This is my _friend_ and flatmate Doctor John Watson. John, this is my younger brother, you know his name already."

Now John was the one who forgot about the other man, and instead of giving his attention to Alastair, he put a question right to his flatmate: "Your brother?"

"Yes."

"How many brothers do you actually have?" he wondered with a surprised smile.

"Two – as far as _I_ know," the youngest Holmes answered him.

"Right," he nodded, absorbing the new information about his friend. "Any... sisters? No? Well then, nice to meet you too."

. . .

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**This was short I know (I'm sorry). But still better than nothing, right? No? Well, the next chapter should be longer so... wait for it :D  
Anyway, thanks to everyone for reading or following this story - you're great and I love you endlessly. **


	3. Chapter 3

"So," said Alastair, putting on his coat, "will you come?"

"Of course he'll come," John answered instead of his friend.

Sherlock turned at him with a suspicious look: "_Will I?_"

"Yes."

"Great," smiled the youngest Holmes. "Well, I'll see you on Sunday then. Thank you John and _see you soon_ Sherlock."

"Don't get too over-exited," said the detective and closed the door behind his younger brother who – in collaboration with his flatmate – had talked him (maybe wheedled a bit too) into having a family dinner this weekend.

. . .

"It won't be that bad," said John with a comforting smile.

Sherlock pierced him with hateful eyes.

"Come on, you haven't seen him for five years."

"Not – my – fault," he grumbled.

"Huh?"

"Alastair was in America. _Snooping_ around again."

"Snooping?"

"Yes. But never mind. He'll tell you himself on Sunday; you're going with me – of course."

_Of course?!_ John's eyebrows flew up in surprise at this piece of news. "_No_," he said as if someone had asked him to eat a living pigeon. "No, Sherlock I am _not_ g–" he stopped as the detective approached him, giving him a glare.

"Because of you," he said slowly (the voice of his sounding deeper and colder than usual), fixing his eyes upon John in a way no one would consider as friendly, "I've accepted something I would never participate in. There are reasons for me not to do so. You probably think I have some kind of a grudge against Mycroft which is so... _typical_ between younger and older brothers. 'Childish' you think. But you must realize that there are things, John, which you don't know."

Unwillingly John gulped and did nod: "Fine."

"Unless you kiss me," Sherlock's tone was all different now, "Then you may stay here."

"I said _fine_."

The detective straightened up, shrugged his shoulders and with words "As you wish," left to his bedroom.

John breathed out and leaned his head against the wall. Can't he just stay at home without having to kiss someone?

Well... no, he can't.

Not when _someone_ is Sherlock Holmes.

He was not a type to which you put up resistance. And John was aware of it. He was almost sure that if he'd stay home on Sunday, in his very room, with locked doors, Sherlock would somehow get inside and drag him off to that dinner or turn him into an experimental model for human microbiome research.

_Today's Wednesday_, he thought. _Maybe some difficult case will show up and there'll be no time for anything else._ Maybe he'll cop out of it somehow. Couldn't Harry get married this weekend?

. . .

You know, it was not that John didn't want to or had a problem with going somewhere with Sherlock and have a dinner, no, he enjoyed spending time with him (whether it was while chasing murderers, doing something debatably illegal, squabbling about his blog or just having a harmless chat at breakfast), but this was a _family_ dinner. Would you say it's alright (or even normal) to bring your flatmate to your family dinner? John would not. And as more as he thought about it, that it would be _Holmes'_ family dinner, he was getting a strange – in no way pleasant – feeling about it.

. . .

* * *

**Okay, let's be honest here: I promise that I will not promise anything again - as it turns out I'm not capable of writting something longer (sorry), s****o: bit by bit.**

* * *

**Mně nevadí že si to čteš, já jen umírám studem pokaždý, když si to představim.**


	4. Chapter 4

"Mmh... What?" John mumbled and buried his face in the pillow.

He did not have to open his eyes to know there was dark all around him. And to know there was the detective standing in his bedroom he also did not have to do it.

_What on earth is he doing here?_ _It's bloody night for heaven's sake!_ was something he would most likely thought if only he wasn't so awfully tired (it is pretty hard to use your brain for some another things than the control of breathing and heart activity when you are in fact still asleep).

"...John," the intrusive yet – due to the deepness and the sonority of its tone – attractive voice was heard again, sounding a bit insistent.

"What is it?" the doctor inquired more mumblingly (since his mouth was pressed to the pillow) and then slowly rolled over on his side.

"Wake up," replied the voice (it was more of a command actually).

John opened his eyes and squinted into the dark: there, of course, stood his flatmate.

The dusky, soaring figure, merging in with the gloom of John's bedroom, was giving the impression of a creature emerging from darkness, of something fragile – a ghost that disappears if someone switches on the light.

But John knew it did not work that way. He knew the man because of whom he's narrowing his eyes was really just a man, flash and bone, and no supernatural being created from shadows or smoke – cigarette smoke – or something like that. It was Sherlock. And Sherlock would definitely _not _disappear – under any circumstances.

"Haven't you somehow mistaken our bedrooms?" he asked in a way clearly driving at the fact that this kind of thing was absolutely impossible to happen to someone like his flatmate, and that he was aware of it and therefore his question was not meant as a mock at Sherlock's intelligence and inability to remember the location of his own bedroom. No, the question was asked only because of John's pure frustration caused by that despite he knew all this, the detective was still standing in his very room.

Sherlock – who surprisingly did understand what his friend had in mind – however, had no time to start a pointless conversation. "Get out of your bed," he said and, a bit impatiently (maybe ruthlessly), yanked John's duvet off of him, "Now."

"What the–!" the doctor jolted and inwardly thanked God that he (unlike Sherlock) always slept in pyjamas. "Seriously?" he said and after sitting up at his bed and switching the bedside lamp on, he turned at his flatmate who'd thrown the cover away – on the floor.

"There's no time for waking you up gently."

"Really?" he wondered. "So you're telling me this _wasn't_ the gentle way?"

Sherlock didn't answer - apparently he'd managed to also wake up John's sarkasm.

"What are you even doing here?"

"Hm? What?" he jerked his head and turned at John with a questioning look; somehow he managed to lose himself in thoughts.

_Wonderful_, flashed through John's head. "You. My bedroom. Night. Why?"

"Oh. Yes," the detective was back again. "We have a case."

"We have a case?" John repeated doubtfully. "Couldn't it wait till morning?"

"It is morning already."

"Eh. Sunrise, Sherlock. Sunrise."

"In half an hour. Just enough time for you to get up and do those things people usually do at the morning before going out."

John sighed in defeat (he did not think that gobbling up a half-baked toast while loading a gun were things considered as those which people usualy do at morning, but he also did not intend to discuss it). At least it seemed to be a tricky puzzle (if not Sherlock would surely wait until morning – well, John hoped he would) and those occasionally took about two or three days to solve, and since it was Thursday, it might then easily last till Sunday, which would mean: no family dinner. "Fine."

. . .

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**I've surpassed myself :D (2 updates in one day - ****don't worry, ****it won't happen again)**


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